


where it hurts

by bluecarrot



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Boys In Love, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Dom/sub, M/M, No Smut, Overworking, Stress Relief, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:56:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8765089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: in which Alex works too hard & Washington makes him return to bed.*"you see, I find myselfin a false position, and wishsome sanity would overtake me"(from Postscript by Eleanor Wilner.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexanger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/gifts).



> written 12/5/2016.

The world is far away, it's dim, when someone speaks his name.

Sleepy voice. Loved voice. He knows that voice. It doesn't matter. Alex can't stop writing -- he _needs_ to get this written out -- just one last thing and then he can go back to sleep. He can go curl up against the warm body waiting in their bed. He can shut his eyes and let his mind drift out and out and out, and then -- then --

 

"Alex." The man crouches down. Doesn't touch. Washington knows better than to touch, _but_ he speaks again and it's rude and it's jarring Alex out of his space and --

"What? What is it? _What?_ "

"It's late. Past two in the morning. You need to shut down your laptop and get some rest."

"What? No." Only a moment ago it was midnight. "No. Not going in yet. I won't be much longer. I'm fine." He needs to finish.

"You need sleep."

Laughable. Ridiculous. "You're the one who needs sleep, old man. I am young. I am _immortal_." His eyes are tired, though. He can feel that now. They're sore and burning, a fatigue he only notices when he blinks away from the glowing blue light of the monitor.

"You're going to drive yourself into an early grave, and it will make me very annoyed, and if _I_ get annoyed,  _you_ will get sad. Neither one of us wants that. Come on." He's curling his hands around Alex's shoulders, tugging a little to separate him physically from the laptop.

His hands are broad and dry and warm and sure and quite convincing.

Alex scowls. "Leave me alone."

"Don't talk to me like that."

Something in Alex catches and flinches back. That thread of authority -- it never leaves Washington's voice and now it's looped around Alex like a noose -- a whip. Sometimes the line is slack and he forgets but it never _goes away_.

"I'm sorry." He doesn't dare look away from the computer now.

"What was that?"

"I'm sorry -- sir."

"That's better," says Washington: but his voice doesn't sound like _better_. It sounds like punishment. It sounds like the real kind of punishment, the kind Alex doesn't want. Silence stretches out taut. Then: "Come to bed, Alexander."

 _Alexander_  doesn't move.

Again: "Come to bed."

"Sir?"

"Now."

He doesn't break down when Washington closes the laptop and takes him by the hand and makes them go back to the bedroom together (the file auto-saves under a new name every few minutes, a useful little trick Eliza programmed in after he lost a week's work and spent a miserable all-nighter trying to regain _something_ of what he was sure had been _brilliant) --_ so he's okay. He will be okay. He just slips back out of himself a little. It's better this way. He can take the  _better_ when he's slipped out.

\-- but he must not be gone all the way, because he doesn't obey; he stands in place next to the bed. He can't make himself go in and Washington didn't exactly tell him to do it, and -- "Sir?"

"Get in." Washington doesn't sound sleepy anymore and he doesn't sound angry.

Alex obeys.

Washington turns out the light and crawls under the covers too.

Alex swallows. "Sir -- "

\-- and then those hands are pushing back his hair from his face and he's being sweetly kissed, and he whimpers and gives in, gives in, lets Washington stroke his hair and draw their bodies close together and rub the small of Alex's back where it hurts (he slouches, he knows he shouldn't and he's been punished for it _(for hurting yourself)_  and he still slouches anyway --)

Washington's thumb, broad and flat and strong, rubs a circle at Alex's temple and he forgets himself again, forgets to remember the ways he's always wrong; he almost purrs.

"Is that where it hurts?"

"There, yes," Alex says, with his eyes shut, but the truth is it hurts  _everywhere_. "Yes, please -- _please_ \--"

The other arm angles under his shoulders and now they're entwined tight; the hand returns to his neck and rubs deep at the knotted muscles. "Here, too. Always here. You're always so tense."

"I don't mean to be tense." Washington smells so good. He smells warm. He smells like rest. It unwinds Alex, just being here _unspools_  him as surely as the soothing-rubbing-circles do. But he remembers: "You're angry? Angry with me?"

"I need you to rest."

"I'm resting. Im a good," he says, asks, falling apart under this tending, falling asleep.

"Good boy. Sweet boy." The thread of obedience is tugging at him again, tightly holding them together, but Washington is amused and Alexander is held safe, held tight, he's allowed to stop now, he's allowed to be quiet. "My beautiful mess, my Alex," he says, but Alex is already asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday and a marvelous, blessed new year -- to my undeserved gift of light. 
> 
> *
> 
> tumblr @littledeconstruction


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